


Solitude My Guide

by tryslora



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Discussion of Abortion, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mpreg, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 05:48:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Long after his divorce from Astoria, Draco Malfoy contacts an agency that guarantees discretion in order to arrange for a rent boy to be <i>his</i> every weekend. One year later, that rent boy is missing, and Draco is determined to find him. The problem is, what he finds is far more than he ever expected. And quite possibly more than he ever knew he wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solitude My Guide

**Author's Note:**

> The title for this fic is taken from the lyrics for the song “Possession” by Sarah MacLachlan. Also, I loved this prompt and had great fun writing for it! I’m more of a Draco/Albus person than a Harry/Scorpius person, so I decided to go that route. I loved being able to delve into all the potential reasons behind all of Draco’s decisions.
> 
> JK Rowling owns the world and characters of Harry Potter; I just like to play here.

It has been a year since this began.

A year since the first Friday night, when Draco spoke to someone on the other end of a secure, discreet Floo call. 

_I’m getting older._

_I need someone young._

_I need someone willing to be consistent._

It has been a year since Draco first walked into this hotel and took the lift to the third floor, butterflies thick in his gut as he made his way to the end of the hall and the expensive suite that he had rented for the weekend. This exact same walk that he takes now.

He still gets butterflies, every single time. Now it is anticipation more than nerves, but they are still there, underlining his every breath.

_What if someone were to find out?_

_What if Scorpius knew the truth?_

_What if Potter knew?_

Draco stops with his hand on the door, the locking spell keyed only to himself and one other. Every other day, from Sunday night through Friday morning, this suite lies empty save for the ministrations of the house elves. It is only on Friday night, when he comes here after work, that it comes alive once more.

For forty-eight hours, every week for the past year, Draco comes home.

Tonight he pushes open the door and finds… nothing.

Silence.

The wireless isn’t playing the pre-game chatter for the upcoming Cannons match that always greets Draco during the Quidditch season.

Food sits in the kitchenette, still charmed and covered as it was left by the house elves. There are no candles lit in welcome, the places are not set at the table.

The fireplace lies cold.

Albus isn’t here.

Draco’s lips press thinly together and the door slams shut behind him with a thought. He settles himself on the sofa and summons a book. He reads here often, only for pleasure and never work. It seems strange to sit on the sofa without Albus sprawled across him. The silence distracts him, but Draco will bear it.

He is sure Albus will arrive soon. After all, Draco pays him well to be here every week without fail. Draco can’t imagine that his favorite rent boy would want to miss getting paid.

#

Surprisingly, it was the boy’s smile he noticed first, before the bright green eyes, or the spiked black hair, or the Potter features that reminded Draco intensely of his younger days. No, it was the quick flash of a smile that was somehow knowing and inviting and kind all at once.

The boy stepped into the hotel suite, waiting politely until Draco closed the door behind him to speak. “I’m Albus,” he introduced himself.

“Albus Severus Potter,” Draco said, taking the offered hand. “I’m aware. And I’m—”

“You don’t have to use your real name,” Albus interrupted him. “This is meant to be a safe space for you. Whatever you do or say doesn’t go beyond these walls, and if you’d rather be someone else for the weekend, that’s fine.”

Draco wondered exactly what the agency had told Potter and whether he was here expecting some ridiculous fantasy weekend. Draco rolled his eyes. “I’d find it rather ridiculous to expect you to think of me as someone other than who I am, considering you were at Hogwarts with my son.”

“I was.” Albus moved past Draco, into the suite so he could look around. When he found the bar, he calmly started to pour drinks, choosing an excellent single malt. He knew his scotch, Draco could tell, and he appreciated that in a young man. Scorpius had yet to have the patience to bother to learn.

Albus offered one glass to Draco, keeping the other to himself. “I didn’t know Scorpius well,” he admitted. “After all, he’s a Malfoy and I’m a Potter, so we stayed on our own sides. It seemed simpler that way. Neither of us wanted to be mates, but we didn’t want to start a war, either.”

Draco caught the rising flush in Albus’s skin, the warmth of having said something out of turn.

“Not that you _started_ the war,” Albus said quietly. “He and I—we just didn’t see the point in interacting.”

“You won’t tell him now.” It was a statement, not a question. Draco had been promised discretion. His ex-wife, his son, his associates: none could know.

“Nothing leaves this room.” Albus took a sip, then set the scotch aside as he smiled. “I’m yours for the weekend, and if we happen to pass each other on the street, I promise I won’t know you.”

His fingers slid down Draco’s shirt, tweaking buttons open with expert twists of his fingertips. He tugged the shirt free from the waistband of Draco’s trousers, then loosed his belt. Draco took a slow sip of the scotch, feeling the mellow burn down his throat and the warmth suffuse his body as he watched Albus slowly draw down the fly of his trousers and push them open. Draco’s prick was half hard, bulging slightly against his pants.

Albus glanced up at him from under long lashes, eyes bright and smiling. He tugged down the trousers and pants together, waiting for Draco to step out of them so they could be tossed to the side. When Albus summoned his glass of scotch, Draco’s breath shuddered. He waited for the feel of slick alcohol against his skin, then Albus’s tongue lapping it up. Gentle drips of scotch followed by slow licks until Draco’s knees were week. Albus nudged him backwards to the sofa, and Draco collapsed upon it.

Drop by drop, Albus drank his scotch from Draco’s body while Draco shuddered, clinging to the sofa, trying to stay in control. And when Draco flipped him over the couch, pressing him face down and arse up so he could return the favor, Albus only moaned. He whimpered when scotch dripped over his arse, when Draco chased it with his tongue. He whined, begging for more when Draco finished the glass and reached away to set it down.

He cried out when Draco finally pressed into that tight, welcoming hole. Draco pushed into him, groaning as he reached for Albus’s thick prick. With quick, firm strokes, he silently urged Albus to come, begged him to find completion. When he did, Draco stopped, still deep inside of Albus as he lost control, and spilled his seed while Albus clenched tightly around him.

When they lay curled on the sofa after, Albus whispered, “I’m yours until half six on Sunday. That’s forty-eight hours even.”

Because it was a business transaction, and that was what Draco had paid for. Discretion, and a young lover who would belong to Draco for a period of time, every week.

Draco couldn’t destroy what was left of the Malfoy family by making his needs public, but he could have this.

He could have _something_.

#

By midnight, Draco knows that Albus will not arrive.

In a year of weekend appointments, Albus has only once been late, on the weekend between Christmas and the New Year, when family obligations had kept him at the Burrow until after nine on Friday. Albus always comes to meet Draco, no matter what, and Draco is always sharply on time, arriving just after his work day ends.

But not tonight.

Tonight, on the day that Draco had tucked away a special bottle of scotch to celebrate one year of their relationship, Albus is gone.

Draco is too old, he knows. Too old and too deluded, making himself think that this is more than a business arrangement. It is not a _relationship_. It is a _fuck_. Albus is _paid_ to suck and fuck an old man that no one would look twice at otherwise. Which is why Draco arranged it in the first place. He needs an outlet. But he is too old to troll the clubs and risk his ego. He is too well-known to risk being recognized and having the world discover that Draco Malfoy prefers men.

He knows the rumours that would start. He saw it when Harold Black left his wife for Sheffield Ewen. It was bad enough that Ewen was a half-blood. But it wasn’t only Harold who bore the brunt of the gossip, it was his wife as well. Rumours circulated for years that he had preferred to bugger her, and that was why they had only ever had one child. There were rumours that she’d had lovers on the side, and his son wasn’t his son. The rumours had grown more and more vicious, equally spread across the two men involved and the wife and innocent child.

Pureblood society is mean and nasty, and loves good gossip. Draco won’t let them attack his son and Astoria. He may not ever have loved Astoria, not the way she wanted to be loved, but he doesn’t hate her either. They were simply never meant to be together for anything other than the creation of a Malfoy heir.

Draco ignores the good scotch, the _celebration_ scotch, and reaches into the back of the cabinet for a bottle of firewhiskey instead. He drains the glass in two gulps, shuddering as it burns.

He won’t allow this.

Albus Severus Potter is _his_ from Friday at half six, through the following Sunday at the same time. Forty-eight hours, bought and paid for. Draco’s hands clench. That is why he must find him, must figure out what has happened to him.

Draco won’t examine any other possible reasons that might come to mind. It is strictly business, and nothing more.

#

Draco had managed to avoid questions for the first several weekends that he and Albus were together. A slow routine had developed, where Albus arrived first and made the hotel suite into a welcoming place before Draco arrived. When Draco had reminded him that he was early, and didn’t need to be there until half six, Albus had laughed and said he enjoyed it, and he didn’t mind.

Draco didn’t mind either. He liked stepping into the room and finding Albus already there. He enjoyed being greeted at the door with a kiss that tasted of wine or scotch or a dinner to be enjoyed. He loved having their first fuck with Albus bent over the sofa before dinner, and the second slow lazy fuck in the bed with dessert.

For forty-eight hours, they did not leave the room those first few weekends. House elves delivered meals and silently whisked away dirty dishes and clothes and brought them back clean. They had no reason or need to leave.

But with all that time alone, something needed to fill the air between them.

It was their fourth weekend together, late on Saturday night, when Albus whispered, “How long have you known that you’re gay?”

“I’m bisexual.” It was the answer that Draco had prepared, and even he could hear the lie in his own voice. Albus waited patiently until Draco smiled wryly. “I’ve known I was gay since I was fifteen.” The admission came slowly. “No one knows, not even those I was closest to as a child. And I don’t wish either my wife or Scorpius to bear the brunt of it.”

“What about living your own life?” Albus curled up against him on the sofa, head on Draco’s shoulder, hand pressed against his chest just over the heart. “Don’t you deserve that?”

“What about you?” Draco asked. “This can’t be much of a life, and it’s certainly not where I expected to find a Potter.” It wasn’t subtle, but it was a distinct shift of focus to Albus and away from himself.

“I’ve known I was gay since I was fourteen. Quidditch showers.” He gave Draco a knowing look, and when Draco flushed—he remembered the awkward moments of showers after Quidditch matches well—Albus smirked. “As for my job, I like it. The agency never sends me out unless they have someone they know won’t say a word about who I am. I never lack for sex, or money. I’m happy.”

“No boyfriend then, I take it,” Draco said dryly.

“There’s a bloke I spend time with, but it’s not like that.” Albus’s fingers drifted down Draco’s belly, teasing his soft prick. “He knows about my job, and I don’t think he minds it much. But we’re not involved, not like you mean.”

“So no jealous boyfriend likely to burst in when you’re selling your pretty arse?” Draco had one hand on that arse, squeezing. His tone was light, but even then he realized that he didn’t like the idea of Albus with anyone else. Possibly someone as young as Albus himself. Someone permanent.

Albus curled his body, mouth finding the tip of Draco’s prick. “No one’s going to interrupt us,” Albus murmured, tongue teasing him back to life. “Every weekend, just like you requested, I’m yours. All yours. Just live your life, Draco. You can be yourself, here with me.”

He took Draco in his mouth then, sucking him to hardness. But it wasn’t Albus’s talented mouth that made heat coil in Draco’s gut; it was his words. His artless, honest words.

Something began then, something Draco refused to define even in his own mind: Draco Malfoy fell in love.

#

Draco begins with owls. He sends two: one specifically to the Burrow, and one to find Albus Severus Potter, wherever he might be. Neither returns right away.

For all that they have spent every weekend together for the last year, Draco knows very little about what Albus does the other five days of the week. Works, he supposes, going out as assigned. Draco doesn’t like to think about this part of the arrangement. He doesn’t want to remember that Albus has other assignments, other clients. He doesn’t want to think about Albus Severus Potter on his knees for anyone but Draco.

It isn’t something that they talk about.

Draco has increased the amount that he pays to the agency over the year, insisting that the bulk of it go directly into Albus’s pockets. It is more than enough to sustain a young man without other income, particularly when combined with the gifts Draco gives him directly. But he has never asked whether Albus has given up everything else.

It is Albus’s life after all, and Draco is merely a client. The boss. There is nothing more than that between them.

The owl sent to find Albus returns, the note still attached to its leg. It either failed, or was unable to deliver the letter. The one from the Burrow, on the other hand, drops an envelope of all too familiar red on the floor. It opens before Draco can capture it.

“ _LEAVE ALBUS ALONE!_ ”

Just those three words, repeated over and over, but Draco can read between the lines. Someone _knows_. Someone in the Potter-Weasley family is aware of what he and Albus do every weekend. He wonders if they think it is more than what it is, or if they know that Albus sells his delectable body. When he finally captures the envelope and manages to end the howling noise, he recognizes the name at the bottom: Lily Luna Potter. It seems that Albus has confided in his sister. Draco can only hope that the eldest Potter still does not know.

He crumples the Howler and it turns to ash in his hands, dust falling to streak the expensive white carpet. Another hour has passed and he is no closer to knowing where Albus is than he was before. He could be at the Burrow; Lily didn’t say where he was. Or he could be elsewhere. If Draco wants to find him, he is going to need to take more extreme measures. He is going to need to try harder.

There is a spell that he knows, one he learned when Scorpius was young. One that all pureblood parents learn, just in case a child strays while at a gathering. No one wants to lose a precious child.

It takes time before Draco manages to find everything that he needs to create the temporary artifact. He substitutes a silver spoon and a crystal goblet for the specified items. He scours the bed, seeking one stray hair from Albus’s head that the house elves missed while cleaning, and finally finds it, wild and dark, tucked between the mattress and the wall.

The spell takes time and energy, but Draco performs it as if his life depends upon it. When it is done, it points the way and Draco feels the relief of knowing that somehow he will find Albus, and that he will be safe.

He will not let Lily Luna Potter stand in his way, nor will he take her words for Albus’s voice. If Albus is done, Draco wants to hear him say it. Nothing else will do.

#

“Have you ever thought about getting a tattoo?” Albus kissed Draco’s chest, tongue darting out to tease a nipple. “Or a nipple ring. You like having them tugged so much.” He did just that, his teeth capturing the small nub and pulling until Draco groaned.

It was Saturday, just after breakfast in bed and edging up on time for a bit of a mid-morning fuck. After four months, their routine had a cadence, a rolling slide from encounter to encounter, with shades of conversation and relaxation in between. Draco let his hand drift between them, finding Albus’s prick hard and ready, still sticky from their last round an hour before.

“Can you imagine if Scorpius were to see me with a nipple ring?” Draco rolled onto his back, pulling Albus on top of him. Draco’s prick slid between Albus’s cheeks easily, the skin slick with come. “I’m a father, Albus. I’m not young.”

“So?” Albus reached back, angling Draco’s cock just right to slide inside of him. Eyes fluttered closed for a moment as he sank down on him, taking him deep. “Ah, fuck, that’s brilliant.” He lifted and dropped again before his eyes opened, pupils blown wide when he looked back at Draco.

“You don’t have to be young,” Albus said softly. “All you have to do is be able to do what you want. It’s your body, your skin. It’s not like Scorpius is going to judge you. Besides, I’d bet no one but me ever sees your chest.”

After three months, Draco felt like he knew Albus well enough to catch the nuances in his speech, and his son’s name had appeared three times this weekend. Draco’s fingers tightened on Albus’s hips as Draco drove up and into him, hard and fast. “It sounds as if you’ve come to know Scorpius more in recent months.”

“Our paths have crossed more,” Albus said, and Draco’s heart dropped.

Like father like son?

There had never been an intimation, never been any signs that Scorpius might prefer men over women. But then, no one suspected Draco of it, either. It was easy to hide, given the right women to date. And Scorpius had a secret; Draco knew that. His son would leave without saying where he went, and return either moody or elated.

Albus must be that secret.

Just as he was Draco’s secret.

“Turns out, he’s not such a bad bloke.” Albus leaned over, brushing his lips against Draco’s. “I have you to thank for that, for opening my eyes to show that the Malfoy name doesn’t mean a bloke’s going to be an arse.”

 _Does he know_? 

Draco wanted to ask, but he wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Instead he simply gripped Albus hard and flipped them over so he could drive into him, over and over until they both were screaming before collapsing into a single boneless heap.

When he came back to himself, Draco murmured, “Yes. Let’s go out this afternoon.”

By the time they returned to the suite for dinner, Draco sported a new and sensitive ring in his right nipple, and a small coiled dragon over his heart. Albus had a freshly inked chain down his spine that seemed to fall from the base of his neck to his arse.

When Draco kissed the chain, Albus shivered. Draco had picked the design, chosen to mark him in this way. Chosen to claim him, as he’d let himself be claimed with the piercing through his nipple.

He wasn’t trying to prove that he was young enough for Albus.

But he did bask in Albus’s approval, as it was shown with licks and nips and a long slow fuck that lasted into the night.

#

“What do _you_ want?”

Draco stares at the young man in the doorway. He keeps his expression mild, the makeshift artifact that guides him tucked within his robes. “I’m seeking Albus Severus Potter,” he says. “May I assume that you are his brother, James?”

The young man snorts, his eyes rolling skyward. “Has it ever occurred to you that Albus doesn’t want to see _you_?”

Draco’s bland smile widens. Two can play at this game, and no Potter will ever best a Malfoy at games of words. “Ah, but you see, Albus has no choice. He has already been paid for this weekend, thus, he must entertain me, whether he wishes to or not.”

A small lie: Albus has not yet been paid for this particular weekend. But Draco is banking on the fact that James has no idea exactly _how_ Albus and Draco are involved. He is rewarded by the small shift in expression, the dawning understanding and the swift narrowing of James Sirius Potter’s gaze into a glare.

“Don’t you even insinuate that my brother is _paid—_ ”

“It’s hardly an insinuation if it’s true,” Draco counters, interrupting James’s words. “Now, if you’ll let him know that I’m here, I’d be happy to continue the weekend from this point forward.”

It’s interesting, Draco thinks, that both James and Lily seem aware of his presence in Albus’s life, yet utterly unaware of exactly how that came to be. He wonders what has and hasn’t been said, and why, but those are questions that can only be answered by Albus himself.

He wonders, for a moment, why he cares that James gives him such dark looks, as if Draco has somehow poisoned Albus and left him to die.

“He isn’t here.” James’s voice falls flat.

The artifact has led Draco here, to the place that he guesses Albus Potter calls home. It has led him to a place where Albus’s spirit holds true. If he isn’t here, it’s a recent departure.

“Where has he gone?” He returns that flat tone with his own even, calm words. Draco refuses to let James bother him.

James hesitates. Draco waits. Finally James turns and retrieves something sitting on the table just inside the door. He pushes the small bag towards Draco, hardly waiting for his fingers to grasp it. “He left that for you, under instructions to give it to you only if you actually wanted to find him. So there, you have it.” James’s gaze narrows. “But whatever he says in that, he doesn’t need you, Malfoy. He’ll be better off without you, so just leave him alone.”

The door slams in Draco’s face.

He tugs the bag open and reaches in to take out the only two items within: a piece of carefully folded parchment, and a choker.

He recognizes the choker, a twist of silver and gold with emeralds along the length. He knows how it sits on Albus’s throat, knows the small imprints it leaves when it is closed tight against that pale skin. He slips it into his pocket for later.

It is the note that sends chills down his spine, the fear coiling in his gut. It is in Albus’s handwriting, albeit shakily done.

_Draco,_

_I am at St. Mungo’s. Don’t worry, everything will be taken care of. But I’m afraid I won’t be able to work with you any longer._

_It’s likely for the best._

_I’m sorry if James and Lily are horrid to you. They are afraid, and trying to protect me._

_Sincerely,_

_Albus Severus Potter_

Draco twists in space, and Apparates to St. Mungo’s.

#

“What is this?” Albus held the box in his hand, rubbing his thumb along the seam without opening it. “The box looks like it’s going to be expensive.”

“It is.” Draco had seen it while walking through Diagon Alley just a few days before and had known immediately that he wanted to place it around Albus’s throat. “I thought it might commemorate six months of our association. Open it.”

Albus’s eyes widened as he lifted the lid of the box. “Bloody well expensive.” He breathed the words out. “Draco…”

Draco lifted the choker from the box and settled it around Albus’s neck, fixing the clasp so that it was tight, but not so tight that his breath would be constricted. He conjured a mirror to float in front of Albus and let him look, Draco’s fingers still lightly touching both chain and skin. “What do you think?”

Albus touched the chain lightly, fingers drifting over the intertwined metal and gems. “I think it looks like it means something.” His voice was low, hoarse. He met Draco’s eyes in the mirror, seeking some response.

There were words that Draco should say, things to commemorate this moment, but none came to mind. Instead he drew Albus to his feet and wrapped his arms around him, kissing him thoroughly. “It means bed,” he said, voice low and rough. “It means I am going to fuck you into the mattress and make you scream. It means you are _mine_ every weekend, without fail. When you arrive you put it on, when you leave you may take it off and keep it with you to remind you that come Friday, you will be mine once more. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Albus said. He nuzzled Draco’s throat, teeth scraping lightly across tender skin. “It means I’m yours,” he whispered. “From Friday through Sunday, I’m yours.”

Yes, it meant _exactly_ that. 

Draco lifted Albus, waiting until those perfect legs wrapped around his waist. His hands cupped Albus’s arse as he carried him to the bedroom and laid him out on the bed. One wand stroke, and they were both naked, clothes sent to the hamper to be taken away later by the subtle house elves.

Draco stretched out over him, not wanting to rush this. Making Albus scream didn’t have to be fast. It could be slow and drawn out, full of lingering touches that teased the younger man until he lost control. Fingertips grazed Draco’s nipple, tugging gently at the ring, and in response Draco nipped at the soft skin of Albus’s throat, sucking it in until it turned red. Albus’s head fell back as he gasped, body arching up against Draco.

Draco’s hand slid down to Albus’s hip, lifting one leg so that he could press in closer, his prick teasing Albus’s arse. Fingers trailed up Albus’s spine, touching the chained tattoo even though he couldn’t see it. It led directly to the choker Draco had placed around Albus’s throat, and he nuzzled that with his lips even as he grazed it with fingertips.

“More,” Albus whispered. “Show me I’m yours.”

Draco nipped at his collarbone, teasing another red mark into being there before he claimed his mouth hungrily. His finger found Albus’s tight hole and he pressed in to find Albus ready for him. Draco groaned, and Albus tilted his hips.

“Please, Draco.”

He couldn’t resist, not when Albus offered himself like this. Not when he prepared himself before Draco even arrived. He could imagine Albus lying back on the bed, his fingers deep in his own arse as he lubricated and opened himself up. Ready. Waiting for Draco to come home and press into him.

Draco tilted his hips, prick pressing against that small hole, waiting for it to open and welcome him in. Slow and easy, making Albus wait despite his wriggles and softly begging words. Draco swallowed every moan, every protestation, silencing Albus with his kisses, tasting every plea. When he was finally seated, Draco rocked slowly, finding just the right pace to drive them both mad.

Gentle. Teasing. Wanting…

Until the hunger claimed him, and each thrust drove deeper in. Until Albus’s fingers against his nipples, the sharp pinches and the tug on the ring, inflamed him. Until Draco couldn’t get enough and needed more. More of Albus, more of his arse, more of his mouth. _More_. Everything. Draco buried himself in Albus over and over, going as deep as he could until he felt his balls tighten. Not yet, not yet, not yet. He held back, despite the frantic thrusts, waiting, wanting, _needing_ to feel Albus.

Albus screamed, fingernails digging into Draco’s back as his body spasmed, clenching tightly around Draco’s prick. Draco’s thrusts stuttered and he lost control, groaning as he emptied himself inside of Albus.

They lay there together, curled in sweat and sticky warmth, until their breath slowed.

“Thank you,” Albus murmured. “You don’t need to bring me—”

“Shh.” Draco touched his lips, and Albus fell silent. “I thought of you when I saw it, so it’s yours. And you’re mine, as I do believe we’ve quite proven tonight. And shall continue to prove throughout the weekend.”

It had been six months, and Draco was pleased that it was a long term contract. Nothing was going to convince him to give him up.

[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/wordsinthehall/52286669/1677/1677_600.png)

#

When Draco arrives at St. Mungo’s, Scorpius is sitting there, and Draco sees red. His son, his _own son_ is here. With Albus. Of course he is, Draco knew this would happen. Scorpius must have hidden his true hungers behind appropriate liaisons, must have dated Peony Zabini in order to ensure that Draco wouldn’t know of his desires for the Potter boy instead.

His hands clench at his sides, and his expression goes to hardened steel. “Scorpius,” he says quietly, and smirks faintly when his son jumps as if stung. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Of course you didn’t.” Scorpius’s chin lifts, and Draco can see in that moment why the boy sorted Gryffindor, of all things. He has a stubborn sensibility, a way of defying everything around him. Draco decrees, and Scorpius pushes his boundaries, testing every word and every rule. “You shouldn’t be here, Dad,” Scorpius says. “Albus doesn’t want to see you.”

“Because he has you,” Draco says dryly. “It is generally considered good taste to break things off with one lover before taking on another, although in the case of a business arrangement I suppose one can allow for overlap. Still. When one resigns a position, one should do so in person, and not via a letter left just in case the employer happens to stop by to seek out the employee.”

Scorpius wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. “You’re not making sense,” he says. “And I don’t care what your reasons are. He doesn’t want to see you, and the healers think it’s best if you’re kept out of this. It’s none of your business anyway.”

Draco seizes onto the strange wording. “Kept out of _what_?” he inquires, keeping his tone as mild and disinterested as he can manage.

“Nothing.” The word comes quickly. “It’s not anything to do with you.”

Scorpius is lying. His grey eyes have gone a deep blue with the lie, the way they always have, ever since he could first talk. There is a depth of emotion behind the words, as if Scorpius speaks the exact opposite of the truth. Draco takes a step forward, and Scorpius draws himself up to his full height, taller than his father by two inches.

Draco stops, arms crossed, and still manages to look down his nose at his son, despite the height difference. “Explain,” he says, tone flat. “Now.”

“Scor!” A door opens and Draco sees a petite redhead there. Her curls are pulled back and yet still cascade down around her face. “Scor! We’re going to hear the heartbeat! Al wants you to be here for this.”

Draco sees the moment that she spots him standing there with Scorpius. He sees the moment that she recognizes him. He doesn’t recognize her, but he can guess by her face and build. That red hair, that spray of freckles. This is Lily Luna Potter, and as Draco watches, her expression twists with anger.

She steps out, pulling the door shut behind her with a solid _thunk_. “Get out of here.” She stalks over to stand between him and Scorpius, and jabs a finger in his chest. “I don’t care what you think, or who you think you own, or _any_ of that. You _hurt_ my brother, and you’re going to leave right this second.”

This doesn’t make sense, and Draco can’t leave it alone. “Hurt Albus Severus Potter? Hardly.” His voice drips with sarcasm. “After all, I’m not the one who can’t be bothered to keep an appointment. I’m not the one who can’t be bothered to see an assignment through. I’m not the one—”

His words are lost, swallowed as Lily plants both her hands on his chest and shoves him backwards. “You’re the one who’s leaving,” she hisses. “Now. And if you don’t do it on your own, I’ll have security escort you out. And wouldn’t that be a treat for the Daily Prophet?” Her voice shifts high pitched, mimicking the news witch from the wireless. “Draco Malfoy was seen today being escorted from St. Mungo’s in the company of security. Rumour has it that he attempted to barge into the room of one Albus Severus Potter, insisting upon seeing the bloke that he’s been f—”

“Enough.” Draco cuts her off sharply. “You’ve made your point. I don’t think either family would be entirely pleased by the publicity were that to happen.” Although the Potter family would weather it far better than the Malfoys. Scorpius—Draco’s gaze drifts to his son who watches the closed door to Albus’s room. Scorpius will be fine, no matter what may come. The Daily Prophet adores him, casting him as Draco’s estranged son, the child raised primarily by Astoria. The child who broke the Malfoy curse and became a Gryffindor, and a pillar of society.

The public doesn’t know the truth, that Scorpius is Draco’s son far more than Astoria’s. That she had little influence on his raising, and that it was Draco who had ensured that Scorpius became something different. That he wished for Scorpius to become his own self and not a copy of his father. No one would believe it, and so Draco lets rumours be what they are.

Draco presses his lips thinly together. “Go to him,” he says quietly. He doesn’t let his worry show, refusing to let them see how much he cares for Albus. When Lily grips Scorpius’s arm, keeping him by her side as she stares at Draco, he knows he has lost. They belong with Albus and he does not.

Younger. Closer to him. They are his family.

Draco turns on his heel, robes snapping about his ankles as he stalks away.

#

Albus lay back on the blanket, arms pillowed behind his head as he stared up at the stars. “Every person in the Black lineage has a constellation?” he asked. “Every single one?”

“Every single one,” Draco confirmed. “I could list them, but I can think of things I’d far rather be doing tonight.”

They were in Paris for the weekend, in a townhouse rented by Draco with a rooftop garden and perfect weather for gazing at the stars. Or for fucking under the stars and lazing about naked afterwards, as they were now.

Draco rolled over to face Albus, fingertips lightly drifting over the edge of the choker, then to the ink chain on his back. They were his touchstones, and Albus responded by lightly touching the ring in Draco’s nipple, then the dragon curled over his heart. No words were spoken as they catalogued the ways they had marked each other. Draco kissed small purple marks where his teeth or tongue had strayed, and Albus’s eyes fluttered shut again.

“Did you ever think this is where you would be?” Albus murmured quietly.

“On a rooftop in Paris?” Draco’s laugh was muffled by a kiss to Albus’s throat, nuzzling him. “Always. I enjoy Paris. My family came here often when I was a child.”

Albus pulled away, and Draco tried to read his expression, unable to divine what it was that hid behind those green eyes.

“It’s a family place then?” Albus asked.

Draco had considered the question, taking it for the words it was, and for the question Albus meant to ask. It dug deep into things he couldn’t look at closely. “It is, yes, in a manner of speaking,” he finally replied quietly. “Paris is a place I associate with the memories of a family life before the Dark Lord entered it.”

“I’m honoured.” Albus kept his voice low, solemn, and Draco was suddenly aware of the gravity of the moment. Then Albus broke it with a smile, blinking those bright green eyes before he kissed Draco’s chest. “It’s going to be a brilliant weekend, isn’t it? Did you ever come here with Scor and his mum?”

Draco tried not to let Albus see his surprise at hearing his son spoken of with such familiarity. Albus spoke of Scorpius rarely, but each time it seemed they had grown a little closer. “Once,” he said. “Astoria wanted something different from her life than I did. Our marriage didn’t last long, and even while we were together we were never much of a family.”

“Scor’s fond of you.”

That made Draco smile, those four simple words. “The world believes we are quite opposite, but the truth is that we get on fairly well, considering our differences,” he admitted. “Scorpius is all I could have asked for in a son. Intelligent. Brave. Outspoken and confident. Willing to make up his own mind.”

“Is that what you wanted to be?” Albus traces patterns on Draco’s skin, fingertips drifting across the scars on his abdomen. That, combined with the topic, makes Draco catch his hand, stop the motion.

“I wasn’t given a choice of what to be,” he said simply. “My life was laid out from the moment I was born until the moment Astoria and I chose to walk away from each other. That was the first decision I made for myself, and even then, I would have stayed with her if she had been willing.”

“It was a loveless marriage.” His hand trapped beneath Draco’s, Albus turns it, entwining their fingers. “Scor told me you two used to argue all the time when he was younger, and that after he left for Hogwarts, you didn’t even live in the same house most of the time.”

“And we divorced during the summer after his third year.” It wasn’t something Draco was comfortable talking about, although here under the stars with Albus, the rest of the world seemed far away. “She had a lover, and neither of us wished to become fodder for the news.”

“Did you take a lover?”

Draco’s snort was inelegant. “Hardly. As I’ve said before, my sexuality is not a topic for the news. Until you, I had little more than a series of extremely rare encounters.”

Albus fell silent, his thumb sliding against Draco’s skin. Draco could feel the tension, could sense that there were thoughts whirling, words left unsaid.

“What is it?” he asked.

Albus drew in a breath and held it, letting it out with a soft sigh. “Will you ever come out, do you think? Would you ever want to let the public see you as you actually are, rather than what they believe you to be?”

Draco pulled back, sitting up on the blanket, arms resting against his bent knees. He shook his head. “No. It would reflect on my marriage, on my life. On my son. I can’t subject my family to that.”

Albus’s eyes drift closed. “So you’d live their life, rather than your own? You won’t give yourself a chance at happiness?”

“It’s not like that.” Draco stood in one quick motion, twisting to move to the edge of the roof. He could look out over Paris, see the lights in the distance. It was a beautiful view. “You don’t understand, Albus. And I have this, every weekend from Friday until Sunday. I don’t need anything more.”

Silence again.

By the time Draco turned, Albus was standing, his trousers and shirt in his hand. “I’m going to take a quick shower,” Albus said. “You said something about the opera tomorrow?”

“I have tickets.”

Albus smiled; Draco’s heart twisted at the way it didn’t seem to reach his eyes. He remained on the roof after Albus left, naked and cold, and wondering if this were the beginning of the end. If it were time to call the agency, and schedule another rent boy. Someone who didn’t know him, and who didn’t need someone younger. Someone better.

Draco pushed that thought away. He wasn’t giving up. Not yet.

#

“I’m sorry.”

One eyebrow arches when Draco hears Lily Luna’s voice behind him. He turns slowly. “Are you? What is it, exactly, that you are apologizing for?”

“Throwing you out of the room.” Her arms are crossed tightly, her fingers gripping her own arms. She looks as if she has eaten something sour. “Albus wants you to come back there. For some reason I can’t possibly fathom he’s decided you ought to be better informed. And Scor agrees with him.” She shakes her head, laugh low and dry. “I think Albus was on the right track before. He doesn’t need you ruining things any more than you already have.”

“Things?” That eyebrow slides higher. “And what _things_ have I ruined already, Miss Potter?”

“Just come inside,” she snaps. “Or run away. I honestly don’t care if you leave; I think Albus would be better off. In fact, I’m sure that’s what you’re going to do anyway once you hear what he has to say, so just leave now and don’t hurt him again by making him _hope_.”

She turns, and Draco’s hand lashes out, gripping her wrist before she can leave. “What is he going to tell me?” Draco demands. When she hesitates, his grip tightens. “If you think it will make me leave… if you _want_ me to leave, then tell me now,” he orders. “Save him, if you think it will.”

“He’s pregnant.” Lily’s voice is flat, cold. “And yes, it’s yours.”

She is still speaking when Draco pushes past her, hurrying into St. Mungo’s. He doesn’t care what else she has to say, and he is not going to leave. Not before he speaks to Albus.

The door is cracked open when he reaches the room. Scorpius sits slumped in the chair while Albus is propped up by several pillows in the bed. Draco meets his son’s gaze, and Scorpius stands, hands in his pockets, watching Draco. “Don’t hurt him, Dad,” he finally says. “I’ve stuck up for you, and I know Lily doesn’t agree with me, so just… get your head out of your arse and make things right here. Whatever you do, I’ll be fine.”

Lily is waiting in the door and Scorpius joins her. They thread their fingers together, hands locked, and Draco sees it then: he has had it wrong. Lily is what Scorpius has been hiding, not Albus. Draco has yet to think through how this changes things.

“I’m not going to hurt him.” Draco doesn’t know whether he speaks the truth or not, but they are the right words.

The tableau freezes until Scorpius tugs Lily from the room and the door closes behind them.

“I didn’t think you’d come here.” Albus’s voice is quiet, weakened.

“It’s Friday.” Draco pulls the chair closer to the bedside before sinking into it. “Saturday by now. Thus, you’re mine.”

Albus draws his knees up, arms looped around them. “I’m quitting, Draco. I can’t keep doing this. Being this.” He avoids Draco’s gaze.

Draco’s gut twists, cold and sick. “I think you at least owe me an explanation.” He watches Albus as much as Albus avoids him. “You’re pregnant, and you had absolutely no intention of telling me. How can you be positive it’s mine?”

“Because you’re the only bloke I’ve let fuck me in almost a year.” Albus finally meets his gaze. “In fact, you’re the only assignment I’ve had in the last six months.” He touches his throat, where the choker ought to lie. Draco reaches into his pocket and draws it out. The gems are bright against his skin as he offers it.

When Albus tilts his head, Draco takes it as an invitation and gently settles the chain there, latching it tight. He breathes easier once it is done, the ritual complete. When he drops his hand to cover Albus’s, they meet palm to palm and fingers lace together.

“Why?”

Albus shoots him a look. “Don’t go fishing for things you don’t want to hear, Draco. I know you don’t want this. Me. Any of it. And I can’t do it anymore. I can’t go back into the closet and pretend I’m not gay. I can’t pretend I’m not in a relationship, I can’t pretend I’m not pregnant, and I can’t pretend I’m not in love.”

Draco always thought it was just a pretty turn of phrase when someone said that their heart skipped a beat. But his does, tripping over Albus’s words in gut-wrenching ways. He has to breathe through it, wondering if he’s about to prove his age when his heart seizes, but it continues to beat, hard and strong after that brief sensation of stuttering. He controls his voice, each word carefully spoken. “How far along are you?”

There is a faint flicker of a smile. “Almost three months. It’s been a rough time this past week, and they thought I was going to lose the baby. Or thought I might have to. I… I’ve been thinking about it. Since we spoke last weekend. I thought it would be for the best if I ended the pregnancy. You don’t want a child, and I can’t get back to work and be a single father at the same time.”

_End the pregnancy._

_Let their child die._

Draco can’t assimilate the words, can’t wrap his head around the concept. He is barely able to hold onto the idea that he and Albus are having a child together; the idea of losing that link is horrific. “You can’t,” he says sharply. “If you don’t want the child, give it to me. I have more than enough resources to raise it. And Scorpius will tell you, I’m not a horrible father, no matter what the media says.”

“I know that.” Albus covers their linked fingers with his free hand. “I know you, Draco, and I know you and Scor were good together as father and son. But this is _my_ child. And I’m not going to give it up. I’d already decided that I’m keeping the child.”

Draco relaxes, eyes closing in relief. Without thinking, he lifts Albus’s hand to his lips, brushes a kiss across the knuckles.

“I’m sorry.”

That makes twice that it has been said, and for the second time Draco has to ask what, exactly, is being apologized for.

Albus’s smile twists wry. “For getting us into this situation. I’ll do everything I can to keep you out of it. Scor and Lily will help me out, and I’m living with James right now. But Scor said that once he and Lily get a house—” He stops then, and Draco rolls his eyes.

“I’ve already noticed, and I’m hardly going to be upset that my son is with your sister, when I’m with you,” Draco tells him.

Silence as Albus’s green eyes go wide. “But you’re not. With me. Not exactly.”

Draco can see his future stretching out in front of him. He has a choice in this moment: either he ends everything that he has ever wanted, or he begins to live a life other than the one that was mapped out for him.

“If I were to tell you to leave that chain about your neck,” Draco says slowly. “Would you? From this moment forward, would you remain mine? No more assignments. No more work; I’ve more than enough in my vault to maintain our lifestyle, for us and the child.”

“You don’t want to come out.” His voice is wary and rough. Albus tightens his grip on Draco’s fingers though, and does not let go.

Draco stands on the edge of a precipice, and it is a long, long way down. The words, when he speaks them, are natural. Right. But he hears them as if from a long way off, their meaning echoing in his mind. “It would be difficult to raise a child with the man I love and remain closeted away from the public view.”

The man he loves.

He meets Albus’s gaze, grey eyes holding green. “You asked if I would live their life, or mine.”

Albus nods. “I did.”

“I choose mine.”

Draco finds himself with an armful of Albus, the younger man in his lap and curled against him, mouth pressed to mouth, the kisses fervent and hungry. It is entirely inappropriate, here in the hospital in a room where anyone could walk in, but Draco responds, wanting nothing more than to press Albus back onto the bed and claim him. He settles for suckling at his throat until he leaves a rough red mark, and Albus sighs and settles against him.

“I love Scorpius,” Draco says quietly. “But this is the family I think I’ve always been looking for.”

“You won’t lose Scorpius.” Albus laughs softly. “We’ve already talked about this, and he knew what I wanted before he left this room. Besides, you’re gaining a sister-in-law. Or a daughter-in-law, depending on how you look at it. And an entire extended family of Weasleys.”

“I’m sure they’ll be thrilled.” Draco’s tone is dry.

“I’m having my grandmum’s first great grandchild.” Albus grins. “They won’t have any choice but to be ecstatic, because she will be doting on me. And you.”

Draco encourages Albus to lie back, and he lies on the thin cot with him. He’ll take Albus home soon enough, but for the moment he is content to stay there, wrapped in each other’s arms and talk about this future that they have. To banter names back and forth, and talk about constellations and stargazing. To decide when and how they will tell the rest of the family.

It has been a year since this has begun, and today it begins all over again.

Solitude ends, and life begins.


End file.
